Chapter 7
The law office of Bunne & Albertini smelled like vanilla on this fine morning.
On the second floor of a quaint building on Main Street in Timber City, our firm consisted of two attorneys, one file clerk king, and one office czar.
My partner was Clark Bunne, the king my sixteen-year-old cousin Pauley, and the czar our receptionist, Oliver Duck.
Oliver looked up, his hair red, his eyes brown. “Afternoon.”
“Hi.” I glanced around the reception area with its comfortable chairs, polished maple table that used to be my Nonna’s, and coat rack by the door. “What smells like vanilla?”
Oliver sighed, sounding as put out as a healthy eighteen year old could. “Pauley is trying different scents to see how they impact client behavior. There are candles in all the offices, and I made him take the one off my desk.”
“At least he’s finished making us experiment with lunch,” I whispered. Never again would I even think of eating a deconstructed sushi taco. Just thinking about it made my stomach gurgle, and not with happiness. I removed my long green coat to hang on the tree next to Clark’s overcoat.
Raised voices immediately caught my attention.
“I don’t give two hoots about that, Clark,” a female voice hissed.
I paused and looked at Oliver, my eyebrows hitting my hairline.
“Now, Brooke. Come on.” Clark’s mellow voice rolled out of his office.
“I’m just going to smack you,” Brooke yelled.
Oh, heck no. Nobody hit my law partner. I hustled past the reception area and turned immediately left into Clark’s office. “Hi there. What’s going on?”
A dark-haired beauty swung to face me. Deep brown eyes, thick black hair to her shoulders, pink color high on her brown skin. “You must be Anna.”
“I really must be,” I murmured as Clark stood from the other side of his wooden desk.
His space was decidedly masculine with his diplomas on the wall, darker wood accents, and the window shades open to reveal a bunch of trees and the brick building next door.
Even the vanilla scented candle burning on the credenza behind him didn’t mess with the male vibe.
“You are?” I kept my voice polite. Mostly.
Clark wore a blue polo shirt with casual slacks, apparently not having court today. “Anna, this is Brooke Walton, my, um, friend. Brooke, this is Anna Albertini, my law partner.”
Brooke whipped her head up. “Friend? Friend? We’re dating.”
Clark cleared his throat. “You’re the one who said you didn’t want to be exclusive.”
I blinked. “Hi.” Walton? “Any relation to Gloria Walton?”
“Yes.” Brooke took my hand in a firm grip. One that she squeezed. “Your grandmother messed with my aunt’s pie.”
Just wonderful. I tugged free and glanced at my partner. “I didn’t know you were dating anybody.” Sans the girlfriend designation, apparently.
Brooke’s chin lowered. Oops. I lifted a hand. “We don’t really talk about our personal lives.” Although, I thought Clark kind of dated around. He’d offered to go exclusive, and she’d said no? Who would say no to Clark?
Clark swallowed, eyeing us both. His skin was a dark brown, his eyes an intelligent brown, and his posture solid. He’d shaved his head again, making him look tough, even in the golf clothing. “We’ve been dating for a while, and I’ve assured her that Nana wouldn’t ever sabotage somebody’s pie.”
Yeah, Clark and Nana were tight. They’d first met when she’d smudged him after he’d ended up with cremated remains all over him, which was totally not my fault. Well, mostly. Clark had then become my uncle Sean’s golf partner, and Clark was pretty much family now until the end of time.
I cleared my throat. “Gloria sued Nana, and I’ve already taken the case, Clark. My plan is to draft the Answer to the Complaint this afternoon.”
Brooke inhaled through her nose, widening her nostrils, still looking stunning. She wore a pink sweater with tight jeans and spectacular brown boots. If she wasn’t glaring at me, I’d study the boots a bit more and then ask her where she’d purchased them. Instead, I held my stance.
“That is unacceptable,” Brooke spat.
Ah. Well, okay. They couldn’t have been dating long, because even I knew how stubborn Clark could be.
“We’ve already taken the case,” he said smoothly.
“I’ll get to work on the Answer.” I knew when to get the heck out of a room.
Clark didn’t ask me to stay, but he did say my name right when I’d hit the hallway.
I partially turned. “Yeah?”
“Your cousin Rory brought you a new desk. He and Vince took out the old one.”
Interesting. Rory enjoyed carving new furniture and rehabbing old finds when he wasn’t working as a spy. Maybe. I wasn’t sure where he actually worked. “What was wrong with my desk?”
“He said this one suited you better.” Clark grinned, his teeth flashing white against his deep brown skin.
In front of my eyes, Brooke mellowed. I couldn’t describe it if I tried, but she watched him and her shoulders went down. Yeah, Clark was seriously good-looking in the golf attire. Wearing a suit in court, he made juries swoon. Smart guys are sexy.
I escaped down the hall, went past the conference room and restrooms, and paused between two office doorways. The one to my right remained vacant, while Pauley had taken over the left. “Hi, Pauley,” I said.
He looked up from a stack of files, two candles burning on the bookshelf behind him. “Hello, Anna. Have you discovered who stole Nana’s ornate boxes?”
“Not yet.” I leaned against the doorjamb, appreciating his perfectly brushed dark hair and ironed green shirt.
An older laptop had been pushed to the side.
“Have you ever heard of a Zippy O’Bellini?
” The name didn’t sound familiar to me, but Pauley was autistic with savant qualities, and his memory and recollection far surpassed mine.
“No.” He patted the file folders into order. “Why do you ask?”
I exhaled. “He’s the attorney representing Gloria Walton in a suit against Nana.” Had she seemed to know his name? Now I wasn’t sure. Nana didn’t lie, so why was I reading into everything?
Pauley looked away. “I can research him if you like. You like. Like. I am not a detective, but the Internet is open for everyone. Everyone. The Internet. Not the Matrix.” He grinned and then sobered. “Could be the matrix. Maybe.”
Yeah, he wasn’t wrong. Maybe we were all living in the matrix. “Thank you. Also, see if you can find out anything about a man named Cormac Coretti.”
Pauley looked up at the ceiling. “Cormac is Irish Gaelic. Coretti Italian. Interesting. Like Annabella Fiona Albertini. Both. Irish. Italian.”
Was it the day for my entire name, or what? “Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“I have no idea, but if you can find him online, please let me know. I appreciate it.” I left Pauley, continuing down the hall to my office, next to the kitchen.
Curious, I poked my head in to see a lovely maple desk with ornate carvings along the edges.
“Wow,” I breathed, striding inside to slide my hand across the smooth wood.
Walking around it, I noted drawers on both sides.
I loved drawers. Tugging my phone from my bag, I dialed Rory and reached a recording of his voice telling me to leave a message or not. I did. Thanking him profusely.
Happily, I sat and pulled out the drawers, noting he’d filled them with the contents of my other desk. The one not nearly as beautiful as this one.
I loved my family.
Twin candles burned in my bookcase across the room, filling the space with the scent of vanilla. I kind of liked it. My phone buzzed. “Anna Albertini.”
“Hi. It’s Sheriff Franco.”
I sat back in my newish leather chair. “Hi, Sheriff. Did you find the thief of Nana’s boxes?”
“No. Not yet. Devlin has the CCTV for the entire town, and he’ll share if they find anything. For now, I need to let you know that Gloria Walton has filed a criminal complaint against Fiona O’Shea.”
I tensed. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I wish.” For the first time, he sounded as if he’d lived all of those years that showed on his face. “I already interviewed her, so I don’t feel it necessary to do so again. Plus, I’m sure her attorney would object.”
“She surely would,” I agreed. “This can’t be serious.”
He was quiet long enough I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. “I think it’s incredibly stupid, but the prosecuting attorney has already called me.”
Oh, absolutely not. “We have got to get Backleboff out of office,” I snapped.
Brad Backleboff had moved to small town Silverville from California, gotten divorced, and then run for Gem County prosecuting attorney.
Nobody had been paying attention, and the guy actually won.
He seemed to just want to make a name for himself.
“Maybe.” A chair creaked over the line as it sounded like the sheriff sat in his old leather chair.
I wanted to sputter. “You can’t tell me you’re going to arrest her.”
“Nope. Not without an arrest warrant, which I have no intention of obtaining right now.”
I sat back, my mind reeling. “What is the possible crime?” This was out of my experience.
“Gloria swore out her statement first thing this morning. Says Fiona O’Shea intentionally contaminated her entry, and Backleboff claims that it was food tampering under Idaho Code § 37-115.”
I rubbed at my forehead and quickly typed the statute into my computer, bringing it up and reading quickly. “That’s absurd, Sheriff. There’s no evidence, no pie, and no intent. It’s a misdemeanor statute, and even if it weren’t, the concoction was thrown out after the contest.”
“I told her that,” he said. “She didn’t care, especially since Brad Backleboff’s hovering like it’s Christmas morning.”
Of course he was.
“Backleboff’s been waiting for something like this,” I muttered. “I think I’ve only met him once, but I didn’t like his eyes. Too beady.”
Franco gave a tired laugh. “He told me this could be his ‘public integrity moment.’ I almost choked on my coffee.”
I rolled my eyes. “That idiot tried to charge my sister for a murder that she was nowhere near committing.” Poor Tessa had been worried, and Backleboff hadn’t even been in town. He’d tried to order his staff from vacation.
“Yes. He’s been telling anyone who’ll listen that his career got stalled because of small-town interference. You cleared Tessa, and he hasn’t forgotten it. He’s determined to find a case he can’t lose.”
“So he’s going after a sweet woman who sells lotion,” I said flatly.
“That’s the one,” Franco said. “He’s calling it a matter of public trust in community events. Thinks he can stretch Idaho Code § 18-7001 for malicious injury to property.”
I snorted. “Gloria’s pie was property now?”
“Apparently. He says the lotion destroyed it, therefore it’s criminal mischief. You can’t make this up.”
I exhaled through my teeth. The guy was itching for a fight, and I was more than ready to go to the mat. Nobody railroaded Nana. “He’s trying to climb his way out of Gem County, and the idiot thinks that Nana is his ladder.”
“Pretty much,” Franco said. “He’s already talking to the paper.”
I stared at the candles, the scent of vanilla suddenly too sweet. “It’s stupid and unfair, but there’s kind of a case since Nana admitted in front of the entire crowd that the lotion was probably hers.”
“Exactly,” Franco said. “Backleboff wants to file for an arrest warrant if he can find a magistrate willing to sign a warrant.”
My stomach lurched. “Which one?”
“That’s the funny part,” Franco said. “Both judges have been scarce lately. One’s hunting, the other’s visiting his sister in Butte. Nobody’s in chambers, and nobody’s answering their phones.”
“Smart men,” I said.
“Self-preserving,” he corrected. “Nobody wants to be the one who signs an arrest warrant for Fiona O’Shea over a pie.”
I ground my palm into my right eye. Was there a migraine coming my way? “What can I do?”
He was silent for a moment. “Get ready to defend her, and hopefully Aiden and I will have good news soon. Maybe the CCTV will show somebody going into the Elks to inject lotion into that pie.”
“Hopefully.” I wasn’t sure there was enough CCTV around Silverville. “I appreciate you giving me a heads-up.”
“Of course. If I thought Fiona was guilty, I’d be arresting her myself.”
That’s right. They’d known each other forever. “Didn’t you attend high school together?”
“No. I’m much older than Fiona.” He sounded pleased.
I rolled my eyes. Of course, everyone wanted to seem younger than reality. “Hey—before I forget, have you ever heard of Zippy O’Bellini? He’s the attorney Gloria hired to sue Nana civilly. I’ve never heard of the guy.”
“Hmm. O’Bellini? I’ve never heard of a Zippy, but I do remember when the Bobcat Thrift Store was called O’Bellini’s.”
I sat up. “In Silverville?”
“Yeah. It’s a popular name in the Pacific Northwest, though. I have a colleague in Seattle named O’Bellini. Jeremy. Good guy who grew up over in Billings.” The sheriff sighed. “Is he with a firm?”
“No. The complaint just had his name and bar number. I have Pauley finding info on the guy.”
The leather chair creaked over the line again. “Zippy is an odd name.”
“That’s what I thought.” I tapped a pencil on my calendar pad. “If a judge issues an arrest warrant, would you let me know?”
“Yes. I’m hoping I can keep that from happening. The food felony charge is stupid, and I assume you can get it tossed. The misdemeanor is another story,” Franco muttered.
I could not believe this. We had to find out who really ruined Gloria’s pie. “I know. I’ll let you know if we discover anything.”
“Okay. In the meantime, I’ll stall Backleboff as long as I can and tell him we’re still reviewing Gloria’s statement. Maybe the judges will stay out of reach until next week. But Anna, be careful. He’s on a mission.”
“I know,” I said.
Franco cleared his throat. “Keep your Nana calm and stay away from Gloria. Whatever you do, don’t poke at Backleboff yet. He’s itching for attention.”
“Understood.”
He grunted softly. “Good. I’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, the soft light of the candles trembling across the room. The vanilla scent had turned thick and cloying.
A shadow crossed my doorway, and I looked up, expecting to see Pauley.
“Hi, Anna.” Jolene O’Sullivan, our local reporter and my main nemesis, strode inside wearing a slick black pantsuit with a green shell, her blond hair up in a ponytail.
“I’m on a story that your Nana O’Shea committed a felony interference with food, or something like that.
She might spend the rest of her golden years in prison.
” Jolene’s smile was catlike. “Care to comment?”